


Peaceful Rage

by Itsagoodthing (mybatboys)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Guilty Dean, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Mark of Cain Dean, Protective Castiel, Protective Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-02-14 14:45:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13010028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybatboys/pseuds/Itsagoodthing
Summary: One minute they were having an argument, and the next he was trying to save his brother's life.





	1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This story is AU. No idea if the events herein would jive with SPN canon. This is 100% headcanon. If you don't like fics that step outside official canon, you might want to skip this one (but please give it a try if you want to). If you crave hurt/comfort, and don't care much which form it comes in, then I think this will be a good read for you._

* * *

It was an argument that had quickly spun out of control. That much Dean knew. The details of the argument were a little sketchy to him because the mark on his arm had come alive, burning with desire, and all of his focus had shifted to the struggle of  _not_  laying into his brother.

He had it under control, but, he really should tell Sam they needed to stop; he needed to stop. Because, if he was honest with himself, he wasn't entirely certain how much control he actually had over it. The monster living within him.

But, Dean's stubbornness and pride didn't want him to back down from the fight. He wasn't going to allow his little brother to tell him what he could, and could not do. Sam wasn't calling the shots for him, and anger over the little shit having the audacity to even try...

The thought stung deeply. That wasn't him. Those weren't his thoughts or opinions. That is when Dean knew that he'd let it go too far, and he had to put a stop to it. Quick.

But, then Sam said something in response to a hurtful, snide comment. Dean wasn't for certain what exactly he had said, but the look on his brother's face—god, he  _knew_ that look—just before he spoke, Dean could tell it has been a really low blow.

So, Sam retaliated.

And, that was it.

Dean's fist took on a life of its own, and the part of him that had zero control over the situation was devastated to watch it smash into his brother's face. He was horrified to hear the crackling sound that came with the impact.

Seeing Sam's head snap back from the force of the blow wasn't enough for him to regain control over his actions. The way his brother floundered backward into the table behind him, did nothing except entice his temper to spiral further out of control. The blood that gushed from Sam's broken nose inflamed the mark's need to kill.

He was fighting an internal battle with himself, but he could not grab the reins. The monster was unleashed, and no matter how shocked he was by his actions, the searing-hot rage that was flowing through his veins overrode everything else. It moved through him, poisoning his mind, paralyzing his heart and locking his true self far away from his brother.

Exactly the opposite of where he needed to be in order to stop the assault.

Sam crashed into the wooden chair behind, and slumped over it. Blood flowed freely from his nose, ran down his face, and dripped onto the tabletop with large splats. He turned to look over his shoulder, and the fear that Dean was eager to see in his brother's eyes was non-existent. There was only sadness and concern. For  _him._

Dean heard himself growl as he moved in for another attack.

Gushing, broken nose or not, Sam got his footing back and pushed off the chairback. He blocked Dean's first punch, then his next, and then another. His brother was trying to talk to him, trying to reach him, as he refused to fight back.

The mark's fury billowed and swelled within, supplying Dean with greater strength, greater stamina, and even less control.

More blocks were delivered alongside words of loyalty and trust; words of faith in his brother. But, they had no effect.

Pain and blood loss was making Sam move slower, and Dean waited. He waited for that one chink in his defense. And, when he saw it, the mark surged with desire and lust for the slaughter.

A double uppercut landed with inhuman speed, drawing out a hard grunt from his brother. Sam stumbled back a few steps, but started to turn toward him again, and that's when Dean's hand reached out for the whiskey bottle.

Sam wasn't even facing him full on when Dean saw himself wield it against his brother. He brought it down with brutal force, using it to bash him on the side of the head. Sam was unconscious before he ever hit the floor.

It's true that the sight of his kid brother lying motionless on the wood floor, affected Dean. But, mostly it just swaddled him with a shroud of ecstasy, delivering with it a euphoria so unparalleled, so delicious, even the purest opiate couldn't compare.

It carried away his last bit of consciousness. Dean could see himself as he kicked Sam in the side over and over again, but it did nothing to faze him. He was floating, drifting; everything was peaceful. Everything was good. The mark was in full control of him and everything was as it was supposed to have been all along. Everything was perfect.

Until it wasn't.

Dean heard the mark roar with rage. It was warring against something and the diversion of its control and focus sent Dean crashing back down into himself. He was no longer floating in a serene mist of indulgence. Instead, he was listening to the mark erupt over whatever had come in between it and it's kill.

He was being restrained. Someone was pinning his arms to his sides from behind. He looked down to see their hands clenched together over his chest and the mark roared out again. It moved to throw them off, but he was yanked back, the arms around his increased their vice-like grip, inflicting pain and constricting his chest.

He wasn't sure if it was the pain or the inability to take a breath that finally put him within arm's reach of the driver's seat, but then he was there. Instead of being surrounded by the soothing thrum generated by the mark's power, he started to hear a familiar voice. The indignation and despair coming from that voice is what brought him back to full consciousness.

"—'re killing him, Dean! Stop! DEAN, STOP!"

The mark gave one last effort to regain control. It thundered and crashed inside of him, clawing for purchase within his mind, but it was too late. Dean was too close to the surface to ignore the voice belonging to the trench-coat-wearing arms, or pretend that he couldn't see Sam just to his right, covered in blood, and lying deathly-still.

He froze. This couldn't be real. This had to be a dream; a nightmare, because there was just no way that Dean had beaten his own brother to within an inch of his life. There was no way that Sam was covered in his own blood,  _lying_  in even more blood, and it was just not possible that he was hearing the raspy gurgle that came every time his brother tried to inhale. An involuntary function that Sam's body wasn't performing nearly well enough.

Cas was saying something, he didn't know what it was, and then he was being shaken, and the question was repeated. Dean's subconscious must have heard it that time, because he felt himself nod, but he still had no clue what Cas was saying. Because, the only thing he could hear was his brother struggling to breathe. His brother that still hadn't moved. And the last time he'd seen Sam lying that still was when he was in the hospital after the trials—dying.

Dean's knees gave out on him, sending him on an express route to the floor. He blinked, and then Cas was leaning over Sam, placing his hand against the blood coating his friend's forehead. The angel remained like that for a moment, but then he shouted with anger and frustration. He looked back at Dean and yelled something at him.

Dean blinked again, and then the angel was in his face, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and shaking him with gusto. He shouted in his face, and Dean's eyes made a sluggish attempt to focus in on his friend.

Castiel's eyes blazed with anger and urgency, and he all but screamed at him as he tried to get through to him.

"Are you listening?!"

Dean swallowed and nodded.

"Sam is going to die unless you help me. Your brother needs your help!"

The room was silent, and then Sam tried to breathe again and Dean was finally able to kick himself into motion. He pushed Castiel aside and scrambled on hands and knees the few feet over to his brother.

Sam way lying half on his side and half on his stomach, and he was such a mess that for a moment Dean was unsure of where to start. He looked up at Cas, "I take it you don't have enough juice to help him?"

Castiel's eyes were brimming with ire when his gaze flicked up to meet his, "Not enough to matter. I used up most of what I had while restraining you."

The brutal truth of the statement slammed into Dean's gut and the panic that blossomed from it was almost uncontrollable. His brother was bleeding, beaten almost to death because of him, and Cas didn't have enough grace left to heal even some of his injuries. Again, because of him.

Dean tore off his outer shirt and tried to mop up some of the blood flowing over his brother's face. He needed to see where he was bleeding from. It would help if he could remember what had happened when the mark had taken control, but it was lost to him.

Cas returned with some clean towels from the bathroom. When he had left to get them, Dean had no clue, but he tossed his ruined shirt aside and grabbed one.

After a couple of gentle swipes, Dean found the two-inch-long gash, not even a centimeter above Sam's temple. He had Castiel put pressure on that while he continued to triage his brother.

One look at Sam's nose was all he needed to know that it was most-positively broken. That Dean did remember. He hadn't been completely taken over by the mark at that point. He remembered the sound of his brother's nose breaking. He remembered Sam tumbling back against the table behind. He remembered the blood flowing down his face. He remembered charging after him, but after that, he had nothing.

Dean grabbed a towel and placed it over Sam's nose; cringing with sympathy when the bone shifted as he pinched the bridge.

Sam never flinched; never made a sound.

This was so much worse than bad, and he was now officially flat-out scared.

Barking at Castiel to use his other hand to keep pinching his brother's nose, Dean reached for Sam's pulse, and then shook his head. He was missing something. His pulse was too weak for it only to be a result of the obvious injuries. He was missing something, damn it!

Dean ran his hands down the length of the familiar, unnaturally-still body. He felt for breaks along his brother's arms and legs. Nothing shifted. Nothing felt swollen or radiated heat. He felt along Sam's rib cage, but again, nothing shifted.

It was when he had leaned over, slipping his hand between the floor and his brother's stomach, that he found what he was looking for. Cursing out loud, he probed the area again.

"Fuck—FUCK!"

"What?" Castiel asked, looking sharply from Sam, up to him, "Dean; what?"

Dean didn't look at the angel as he was gathering his brother's limp body into his arms, "He's bleeding internally. A lot."

Dean took care as he placed Sam's head in the crook of his arm, and then slipped an arm under his knees. His brother might be thin and lanky, but he was all muscle, and Dean groaned from the strain of picking the both of them up off the floor.

Castiel moved in to stand opposite of him, taking part of his burden in his own arms, and helping him to stand. Once Dean was up, he heaved his brother up to get a better hold on him, and then took off for the garage.

* * *

 

When Castiel had found Dean, he'd been standing against a pillar, gazing out of the sixth-floor window, and trying to lose himself in the nightscape outside. He'd lost track of how long he'd been there in that same position, but from the way his legs and feet had gone from aching, to throbbing, and then finally to being numb all together, Dean knew it had to have been hours.

He didn't know what time it was, he didn't know when he'd come screaming into the Emergency Room, he wasn't even sure when Sam had come out of surgery. All Dean knew for sure was, Sam was lying in the ICU, recovering from an operation to fix a tear in his spleen that Dean had given him.

Castiel, their "oldest brother" where the medical staff was concerned, had been sitting with Sam since he'd been brought up from recovery. Dean hadn't seen his brother since he'd been rushed off for surgery. He couldn't. He wouldn't allow himself near him, for his protection; and because he just couldn't face him.

The angel walked up beside him and stood there with him in silence for a while. When he finally spoke, his eyes remained watchful over the city.

"Sam is awake. It will take a while, but the surgeon said he would recover."

Relief washed over him followed by guilt and sorrow, the negative emotions crushing his heart. There was never a time, when it was within Dean's power, to remain at his brother's bedside, but had not. There was never a time he wasn't the first one Sam would see after coming back around. Until tonight.

"He's asking for you."

That had Dean turning away from the window to find his friend looking at him. Dean searched the angel's eyes and then shook his head, "No. It's not safe. I can't—"

Dean cut himself off, shaking his head, and looked back outside again.

"You can't; or you won't?"

Dean heard the implication loud and clear and spun back around, "Did you somehow miss how close I came to killing my brother?" He stared hard into the angel's blue eyes, "Did you space-out while telling the doctor down in the ER how the mugger had overpowered Sam, and had been kicking him in the stomach over, and over, and over?"

Castiel frowned when Dean's voice cut out over the last two words, and he placed a hand on his arm, "This wasn't your fault, Dean."

"The hell it wasn't!" He shouted, ripping his arm from the comforting gesture. He didn't deserve the angel's pity; and he didn't want it. He turned around and began to strut off, but then spun back around, thrusting a finger at the other man's chest, "You stopped me from  _killing_  my brother, Cas. I was  _killing_ him; just like Cain said I would."

"Dean, I have no belief that you will kill Sam. What Cain said doesn't matter—"

"It does! It has to! Because, if you hadn't walked in and stopped me, Sam would be dead. No two ways about it. He would be dead." He turned and pointed at the double doors leading to the ICU, "Not recovering from surgery, not dealing with a grade three concussion and a broken nose. The most important thing in the world to me, would be dead— _Dead_ , Cas—and, it would have been by my own hand."

Dean sighed, feeling completely helpless. "I just can't risk it. I can't put him at that risk. I have zero control over this thing," Dean said, pointing at the mark lying beneath his sleeve.

"That's not true. It does not control you—"

"It does, Cas. Otherwise tonight would have never have happened."

Castiel took a step closer, making it impossible for Dean to look anywhere but at him. "If the mark were truly in control of you, and you fully under its power, I would not have been able to stop you, Dean."

The angel paused and let that sink in for a beat, "I am working on borrowed grace, and I'm not at my full strength. I would  _not_  have been able to stop you. You stopped because you were able to regain control over the mark. You stopped because you willed yourself to."

Dean tried to turn away, but Castiel grabbed his arm and spun him back around, "You stopped because your will to  _not_  harm your brother is stronger than the mark's lustful desire for Sam's blood."

They stood there, practically nose-to-nose with each other. The silence of the corridor made his ears ring as Castiel's words and his own beliefs warred it out in his heart, over his brother.

The hand that had gripped his arm hard enough to bruise, moved up to this shoulder and gave him an affectionate squeeze, "You're afraid. I understand that. But, you have more power over the mark than you give yourself credit for. No more harm will bestow upon your brother tonight, because you won't allow it. I believe in you. Sam believes in you—"

The guilt and pain over those last words were just too much to bear and Dean closed his eyes, holding in his emotions.

Castiel squeezed his shoulder again, "Your brother needs you, Dean. If you are truly concerned for his well-being, do not deny him the one thing that he needs most right now."

Breathing out a conflicted sigh, Dean shook his head and looked at the angel. He looked over his shoulder at the doors to the ICU, and then back. When he began to speak, his throat closed up and he could barely get the words out. "Don't you leave him alone with me."

Castiel nodded in understanding, "I will remain by Sam's side at all times."

Dean's brows pulled together in a worried scowl, "I mean it, Cas. Not for one second. If anything seems even the slightest bit off, I need you to promise me you'll step in before anything happens; that you'll keep Sam safe. Whatever the cost. Whatever you think; whatever Sam says. You keep him safe."

Castiel looked hard into Dean's eyes and nodded again, "I give you my word, if I feel you pose any threat to Sam, I will not hesitate to smite you."

Dean did a double-take at his friend's words, "Okay…, not exactly how I would have worded it, but good to know we're on the same page."

Dean smirked at his friend's solemn expression of understanding, and allowed himself to be turned toward the double doors at the end of the hall.

Castiel entered a numeric code on the keypad by the doors. It was one that he'd been given by the staff, and one that Dean had refused to know.

"Just out of curiosity," Dean said as they entered the unit. "How exactly  _would_ you 'smite' me."

Castiel looked over at him with near-enthusiasm, "There are many ways to choose from."

Dean's eyebrows rose toward his hairline, "That so?"

The angel leaned in toward his friend, nodding, as the heavy doors were swinging closed, "The possibilities are practically endless."

_TBC..._


	2. Chapter 2

_So, this was_   _originally_   _a one-shot. Then I agreed with most of the reviewers that said it needed a little more. I was certain a second chapter would wrap it up nicely, but it turns out that the boys have_ _so much baggage,_ _it's_ _going to take at least three. I really hope it's only three._  

 _Restating the AU disclaimer from Chapter 1_  

 _I hope you enjoy._  

* * *

 

Dean walked beside Castiel, down the corridor toward the Intensive Care Unit. The corridor opened up into an impressively large area, and first thing Dean noticed was the lighting. It was soft and subdued. Dim, but still bright enough to comfortably see by. From what Dean could tell, there wasn't a single fluorescent fixture in the entire unit.  

Instead, rows of recessed lights scattered along the ceiling, soft lights shone from beneath cabinets mounted along the walls, and at the nurses' station, a desk light illuminated each workstation. The floors were wood grain, the walls a creamy beige, and the contrast of the natural hues combined with the soft, warm lighting created a calm and relaxing atmosphere. 

A command center was directly in the center of the room, and behind the counter that encased it, was just about every resource that the nurses might need to care for their patients.  

At that central station, one nurse was assigned to each work space, and that nurse was responsible for the care of only one patient. Each terminal had a flat-screen monitor displaying the patient vitals along with a whiteboard listing the patient's initials, and what looked like details and instructions written out in code and time-stamped.  

The wall surrounding the nurses’ station was slightly curved, and circled around the entire unit. Within that wall were sets of glass-sliding doors, each one the doorway to a patient room; every one that led to an occupied room stood open.  

Dean followed behind a step as Castiel walked up to the nurses’ station and gave a small wave to a specific nurse. Sam’s nurse, Dean had no doubt.  

The kid was cute.  If he had to guess he'd say she was somewhere around twenty-four. Her dark hair was pulled back into a low ponytail and Dean knew anyone that could make a pair of scrubs look that good, seriously had it going on.  

Looking at her face, he wouldn't classify her as drop dead gorgeous, or anything, but there was something about her that put her in a class far from what he'd call plain. 

The way she carried herself and how she had looked him in the eyes when he'd approached the desk told him she was strong and confident, which was so much more of a turn on than a ditzy swimsuit model that wilted easily and had no clue what a good conversation was.  

Sure, he wasn't known to be choosy over his women, and if you looked at his track record, you'd probably find one type in general that dominated the list. There was a reason for that. That certain type more times than not, didn’t have the convictions or morals to turn down his offer for a one-night stand. 

But, if it came down to picking up some smoking hot dame who was rearing and ready to go, or investing time into getting to know someone who might not turn all the guys heads, but was pretty, and kind, and smart, and had more personality than a stick of gum? He’d pick the cute girl with brains every time.  

“Cas,” she said, her warm smile never faltering as she looked at Dean. “Is this your brother?” 

“Yes, this is Dean.” Cas smiled at him, and then leaned against the counter as he spoke to the nurse again. “He’s the middle child.” 

Dean had to force his eyes not to roll, and instead flashed an easy grin when the nurse glanced back over at him.  

“I see,” her smile grew. “Hi, Dean. My name is Kailyn; I’m Sam’s nurse.” 

Dean kept up with the grin while shaking her offered hand.  

Castiel finished signing into a log book and slid the binder and pen along the counter at Dean. 

“How did you manage to get here so quickly,” Kailyn asked while Dean filled in the required fields. “When Cas mentioned he was leaving the unit to pick you up at the airport, I didn’t expect him back for  _hours_.”  

Dean swiveled his head toward the angel standing at his right, and stared at him.  

The angel reciprocated with a cheery smile.  

Drawing in a long inhale, Dean turned back to the nurse, “Ah, yeah. Well, that was the plan—to pick me up in Witicha—but, a buddy from work called in a few favors and I was able to catch a commuter flight from there to a private airport about fifteen minutes away.” 

“Oh! Hey, that’s great.” Kailyn replied, taking the log book back. “Well, you guys can go ahead, if you’re ready. Just let me know if you need anything” 

Dean looked between his friend and Sam’s nurse, “It’s okay if we both go in?” 

Kailyn nodded, “Sure. Sam’s not critical, so up to two of his immediate family can visit at a time, and we don’t limit visitation hours, except every twelve hours, at shift change.” 

Dean was surprised to hear that, “Really.” 

The nurse nodded, “Yeah, it used to be a lot different years ago, but then they started to realize the positive impact family had on a person’s recovery. I don’t think there are very many units that restrict family like they used to; unless, maybe if the patient is critical.” 

“So, um.” Dean glanced at the room behind him. Clearing his throat, he looked back at the nurse, “So, Sam’s…” 

Kailyn’s smile was compassionate and reassuring, “He’s pretty banged up right now, but it looks like he’ll be just fine.” 

The first part of her reply twisted his heart into knots and he gave her a quick nod of thanks, turning away before his guilt could show. 

Two steps away from the desk, he leaned in to hiss into the angel's ear, "Picking me up at the airport? Really?" 

Castiel glanced at him, eyebrows raised, and looking slightly defensive, "It seemed like a good explanation of why I had to go get you." 

"Closest major airport is in Wichita, Cas. Over two hours away." 

Castiel paused just outside of Sam's room, looking a little sheepish, "I was put on the spot, and it was the first thing that came to mind." 

Dean groaned internally as he scrubbed his hands over his face, and Cas took that moment to strategically duck into Sam's room.  

Dean hovered around the open doorway for a bit, and then he moved just far enough into the room to lean his back against the door frame. His eyes locked on the angel standing next to the bed until he built up the nerve to meet his brother’s eyes.  

Castiel turned and looked at him, “I’m sorry, Dean. Sam has fallen back asleep.” 

Dean stared at him for a moment, and then dragged his eyes from the angel over to his brother.  

The room was small, and Sam’s bed faced the doorway, meaning Dean could take in most of his brother’s condition from where he stood. They’ve had their asses handed to them plenty of times, and Sam looked pretty much exactly like Dean had expected him to.  

Deep bruising extended from the bridge of his nose to beneath his eyes, a result from the blood that had pooled in his sinuses and under the skin. The break itself must not have been too bad, considering they had decided against splinting Sam’s nose, and instead, kept the alignment by packing one nostril and securing the bridge with a wide strip of thick, white tape.  

The room was dark, mostly. The only light source was a couple of monitors and whatever light that managed to spill into the room from the unit outside. That made it pretty damn clear how bad the concussion was, and how much it made his brother’s head hurt. Dean had no idea how Sam ended up with a grade-three concussion, but as much as he didn't  _want_  to know, he would find out. 

 He’ll get his answers. One way or another, he’ll piece together exactly what had happened; what exactly he had done to his brother. And, then he’ll commit every detail to memory, never to ever forget. A pathetic attempt to assure himself that something like that would never happen again.  

Here’s the thing, though. There’s no guarantee of that at all. Until they managed to figure out a way to get the mark off his arm, no matter what Cas believed, there was no way to make sure he’d never lay a hand on his brother again.  

Except, maybe, unless he was dead. If that was what it would take to keep Sam safe, then Dean was going to find a way to make that happen, and make it stick.  

“Are you going to come in?” 

Dean looked over at his friend, “I’m good right here.” 

 “I’m sure that’s not what Sam meant when he asked for you.” 

Dean scoffed, “I’m here, aren’t I?”  

Castiel frowned, “Dean—“ 

“Lay off, Cas,” 

Castiel started to reply, but then Sam breathed out a soft grunt, and the angel turned his attention to Dean’s little brother.  

Sam managed to get his eyes open and his gaze went straight to where the angel was standing. It’s where Dean should be, and jealousy pricked at his heart over someone else doing his job. He was supposed to be the one that Sam looked to for protection and comfort. It’s just always been that way.  And, that door has always swung both ways. 

He might put on a front of always having to look out for his little brother, and how trouble always had a road map leading straight to Sam. While all that was true, and yeah, he’s saved Sam’s bacon more times than he cared to count  

That's okay, though, because Sam has returned that particular favor in spades. If Dean had anyone to choose from, alive or dead, to have his back, Dean wouldn’t even have to think about it. It would be Sam, every time. Not Bobby, or Jody, or even their father. He’d choose Sam, and it would be the right choice. Every time. 

Dean watched Castiel lean down and speak softly to his brother. Placing a hand to his shoulder, he gave a nod toward the door.  

Sam looked confused at first, but then he caught on, shifting his gaze from the angel, over to where he was leaning against the door frame. Their gazes locked, but neither of them made a move. 

Dean felt regret squeeze his heart and he wasn’t sure what to do. He had known he wouldn’t be able to avoid Sam forever, and for the hours he’d been alone in the hallway outside of the ICU, he’d been trying to figure out how he should start to apologize. How does that even work? How do you go about facing your brother, who you almost beat to death? How do you even get the  _right_ to apologize for something like that? 

Therein is his problem. Because, everything he’d come up with had sounded lame and worthless in contrast to what he’d done. And, now, standing in his brother’s hospital room, and looking at the damage he’d done, he was no closer to figuring it out.  

Continuing to look at each other, the air became thick and he was struggling to breathe through the tension that settled between them, and then Sam had tried for a smile. It was more along the lines of a grimace, but Dean knew his intention. Sam was lying there, all busted up because of him, and trying to make  _him_  feel better. Unbelievable. 

Jutting his chin in Sam’s direction, Dean stuck his hands in his pockets.  

Sam looked at him, and then his brows drew together when he continued to just stand there. 

Dean inhaled on a long blink. He didn’t move, but he didn’t look away either. 

A weak scowl was thrown his way. And, yeah; message received: Quit being a moron, and come here. 

Dean responded by shaking his head the slightest bit.  

With a sigh, Castiel tried to change his mind, “Dean…,” 

The hunter’s gaze held a dangerous glint as it skipped over to the angel, warning him to butt out. 

To his credit, Cas didn’t push the issue, but he still gave Dean one of his exasperated sighs.  

Looking back at Sam, Dean’s expression faded to a look of unwavering stubbornness. Breathing out a deep exhale, he crossed his arms across his chest, making it clear that he wasn’t moving.  

Sam frowned at him. His expression was a mixed bag of concern, frustration, and exhaustion. Dean knew this couldn’t be doing his brother any good. The situation was stressful, and his refusal to go near Sam was only going to frustrate him further.  

The whole damn thing was just a blaring confirmation that he shouldn’t have let Cas talk him into coming. He hated himself for being weak and giving in. He shouldn’t be there. He should leave. But, Sam was still looking at him, and he couldn’t just turn and walk out on the kid.  

He’d wait until his brother fell back asleep. He could tell by how hard it had been for him to open his eyes, that it wouldn't take long before he faded out on them again. Watching how slow each blink was becoming, Dean knew he wasn't going to last much longer. Sam’s body would pull rank soon and force him to rest, and he’d slip out and leave then. It would be easier on the both of them.  

A few of the longest minutes in the history of time passed, and still, they continued to look at each other. Dean was in the process of mentally cursing his brother’s tenacious stubbornness when Sam had winced, breaking off their stare-down by squeezing his eyes closed against a spike of pain.  

Dean pushed himself off the doorway and had to hold himself back from rushing over, watching as Castiel shot him a look before stepping in, and doing his job for him.  

The angel placed a hand on his brother’s head and Dean could see Sam’s lips moving, but he was speaking so softly that, even standing right beside him, Castiel still had to lean in to hear him.  

Dean watched him respond, his words were just as soft as Sam’s had been, and Dean was physically sick over causing his brother so much pain. 

Castiel was leaning over Sam, blocking his view of his brother’s face, and that frustrated Dean. If he couldn’t see Sam’s face, he couldn’t gauge his level of pain, and that meant he couldn’t tell Cas what he needed to do.  

Having experienced just about every injury over the past couple of decades, they’d gotten good at knowing what worked for each other, and what didn’t. Prescription pain medication was hard to come by and they rarely had it.  

On the times they needed it, but getting it wasn’t an option, they had to experiment and figure out other ways of masking the pain. Pressure points to numb an area, or massaging the base of the skull to ease a migraine were just a couple of the things they had in their arsenal of drug-free pain management. 

Dean figured his brother had finished speaking, because Castiel nodded, and stood up straight. Sam shifted the slightest bit, his eyes briefly squeezing closed even tighter, and Cas placed a gentle hand to his shoulder before walking the few steps over to Dean.  

"What's going on?" Dean whispered as he walked up to him, "He shouldn't be hurting this bad. What's he on for pain?" 

“They’ve got him on a low dose of Codeine with acetaminophen.”  

 _“What?”_  Dean couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “That’s nothing.” 

Castiel sighed, “Dean, it's the best they can do, consid—” 

 “I don’t think you’re getting it," Dean huffed. "With the pain Sam’s in, Codeine is pretty worthless. People take Codeine in cough syrup for a nagging cough. And, and—” He stole a glance at his brother, “And, acetaminophen is just a long word for friggin’ Tylenol—“ 

“Dean—“ 

“It’s not enough for the pain he’s in!” Dean snapped, while struggling to keep his voice low. 

Castiel raised a placating hand, "I know. That was clear the first time Sam woke up. I talked about this to his surgeon. Dean, they can't give him any of the strong pain medications, because of..."  

His friend looked up at him as he trailed off, and Dean's heart plummeted to his shoes, "Because of how bad the concussion is. Right?" 

Looking remorseful, Castiel nodded, "Right." 

"Damn it." Dean’s eyes closed on his exhale. Opening them again he looked past the angel, to his brother. Sam wasn't clenching his lids closed anymore, but they were still shut and his discomfort was obvious. Shaking his head, he asked, “What about pain from the operation? Codeine and Tylenol alone aren’t going to be enough to cut it.” 

Castiel nodded, “They’re using Lidocaine injections at the site of his incision to numb the area.” 

Dean’s eyes remained on his brother, “But, as far as pain management for his insides go…, he’s shit out of luck. That right?” 

“Unfortunately, yes.” Whispering still, Castiel added, "Dean, Sam is asking for help turning onto his side." 

His eyes flicked over to the angel in disbelief, "What the hell, Cas? So, freaking help him." 

"He wants you." 

Dean shook his head, taking a step back and whispered, "No. Not a good idea." 

"Dean—" 

"No, Cas. Just, please—" 

“Dean,” Castiel took a step closer. “He wants—you." 

Dean was about to lay into the angel, but stopped himself before his voice raised above the whisper they'd been conversing in, "Look. I'll make this real simple: I'm the reason Sam is in the shape he's in. I'm the reason his head is so fucked up they can't give him the good pain meds. Sam's had a fucking operation. They had to open him up, and they can't give him any of the heavy hitters because of me. All of this, Cas, is on me. My brother is lying there in pain, because of  _me_." 

Castiel looked confused, his eyes doing that squinty thing right before he asked, "If that were true, then why wouldn't you do everything within your power to help ease that pain?" 

It hit him like a slap to the face and he flinched back from the words. He felt backed into a corner and struggled to figure out what would be the right thing to do. He needed to protect his brother;  _Sam_ needed him to protect him, and he was pretty sure going near him would be the exact opposite of protecting him.  

But, Sam also needed him to be near, and Dean  _knew_ that need. He'd felt it every time he'd been injured; the need to have his brother close.  

It didn't matter if Sam was squeezing his arm, telling him he was right there, or if he was sitting next to him on the bed, immersed in whatever bit of research his laptop was showing him. It always made the pain and discomfort better just by having him near to him. 

Dean was weighing his options when he looked from Castiel, over to his brother, and found him looking back. The pull on his heart to give up on his protection detail was rapidly becoming impossible to ignore. He hesitated to move, but then Sam took the hand laying on the bed near his hip and turned it palm-up.  

The gesture was a blatant plea for Dean to go to him, and damn it if it didn’t wear down that absolute last bit of his resolve.  

Dean shoved aside the fear he'd been using to keep up the barrier between them and stepped back into the role of Sam's big brother. His heart thumped in his chest and any remaining sections of the wall he'd constructed came crumbling down in the wake of his long strides into the room. 

Four or five steps and then he was taking Sam's hand in his and using a gentle touch to brush his bangs away from his face.  

"Hey, Sammy." 

 _TBC..._  


	3. Chapter 3

Sam’s eyes slid closed on the first step Dean took away from the door. The pounding in his head made it almost impossible to focus on anything. The more he tried, the worse the pain became. 

But, when he felt his brother pick up his hand up and hold it, Sam forced his eyes back open. He was doing his best to focus on the person leaning over him. Then, Dean swept the hair away from his face. The gesture was so familiar, and such a comfort, that his eyes closed again on their own.  

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean spoke in low tones, touching him on the shoulder. 

From those two words, Sam could sense the heaping amount of guilt and pain his brother was struggling with. The touch on his shoulder was hesitant and too light. Dean was afraid to touch him; afraid of hurting him. 

When he had woken up the first time, and Cas had been there instead of Dean, Sam had known right off why. Coming around a few more times after that, he’d finally been able to force his voice to work, and after a brief, difficult discussion with the angel, Sam knew they had to work together to get Dean to come to him. 

Because if they didn’t take care of it right away, and Dean went off on his own thinking the blame for this majorly messed up situation rested solely on his shoulders, Sam knew it would become almost impossible to fix. The longer that notion festered in Dean’s brain, the more difficult it would become to talk his brother off the ledge.

Squinting against the pain, Sam forced his lids to open again. He tried to focus his vision on his brother’s eyes and opened his mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Keeping his gaze on Dean, he swallowed and tried again. 

Dean looked over him to the angel standing on the other side of the bed. He mouthed something, and Cas must have answered, because then his hand was released as Dean reached for something. 

A cup of ice water with a straw was then held out in front of him, and Sam grimaced, shaking his head as little as possible.

“Are you sure, Sam?” Dean asked, still holding the cup. “Just a sip? It might help.”

Shaking his head hadn’t been the best idea, so this time he let his face scrunch up into a scowl while pushing the cup away. 

Dean handed the rejected water over to Castiel and went back to looking him over. Dean's face was drawn into a deep frown and his concern was palatable as his eyes roamed over his face, “What, Sammy? What do you need?” 

Dean squeezed his shoulder, his face falling even more, “Cas said you needed to move onto your side. Is that it; you need some help?”

Sam had figured the request would be enough to get Dean to give up his impersonation of the silent sentinel at his door. He had counted on it, asking something of his brother in a way he knew he wouldn't be able to say no to. Especially not when he’d just had his ass handed to him. He didn’t even feel guilty over bringing out the big guns, mostly because the request wasn’t meant as only a lure. 

He fucking hurt. Everywhere. He had zero energy for pride, and was having no problem at all asking for help. The less he had to work at getting his body into a different position, the better. He didn’t need to nod, or use words to get Dean to understand that. One look was all it took, and Dean knew.

“Okay, Sam.” Dean nodded, and leaned over him, looking at the gash on the side of his head. His eyes became brighter and he turned away for a second. Clearing his throat, Dean looked at him again, “I’m guessing we’re avoiding your left side.” 

Dean's eyes may have cleared, but when he spoke his voice betrayed his attempt at playing it cool. His words were flimsy and Sam could see all the guilt and regret he was trying to keep under control. It was written all across his brow. 

Reaching out a hand, Sam grabbed the arm Dean had braced on the side rail. He closed his eyes as he drew in a breath, saying, “Dean; don’t.” 

His brother’s huff had Sam looking at him again. But, Dean was staring past him somewhere, blinking, and breathing choppy and shallow. 

Sam squeezed his arm, “Hey,” he said, and waited for his brother to look at him again. A couple more blinks and a shaky inhale was what it took before Dean could give him his attention. 

“Just give me a hand?” Sam asked, holding out his hand, and hoping the request would give his brother something else to focus on. 

Dean frowned at him, but he then clasped his offered hand, and slipped the other behind Sam's shoulder. Tensing his arm so Sam could use it as leverage, Dean waited for him to pull against him, and then he was supporting his shoulder, bringing it toward him, as Sam worked at rolling onto his side. 

He’d gotten as far as lifting his upper back off the mattress before the strain made his blood pressure surge and the pounding in his head exploded.  He was pretty sure he’d grunted, but it could have been a whimper. Either way, everything whited out for a second, and he lost the grip on his brother’s hand.

He felt himself starting to fall back, but then Dean was leaning over him with an arm cradled behind his shoulders. Sam grabbed a fistful of Dean’s shirt and dropped his head against his collarbone. His brother’s embrace tightened, and he spoke to him in soothing tones. Then the pitch of his voice shifted to that take-charge quality and Sam could tell he was throwing around orders. 

Whatever he was saying, Sam couldn’t hear it past the cannons firing in his head.  Someone slipped a hand under his hip and another behind his knee. Then, both of Dean’s hands were on him and he was being pulled toward his brother, and onto his side.  

Pulsing, thundering, crushing, pounding…, none of those came close to describing what his head felt like. Maybe if you combined them all, and then added Paul Bunyan slinging a sledgehammer against his skull, you might be close. Curled onto his side, pushing his forehead into the pillow as he tried to escape the pain, he had no doubt now that a few whimpers were mingling with the choppy groans he couldn’t stop panting. 

He’d been through so much in his life, and has experienced so many different types of pain, that he’d become pretty good at numbing it down and ignoring the majority of it. It was unusual for him to allow the pain to take control over him, and he could tell how much that was screwing with his brother. 

The hand Sam was still gripping tugged against his, and he knew that Dean had taken a step back. It was too much for him right now. If they hadn’t had that fight, and if it wasn’t the reason Sam was lying there, entombed in pain, it would be a different story.

Dean had always been up front and center when he was hurt. For a long as he could remember that’s just how it had always been. With all the shit their dad had piled on Dean’s shoulders, it wouldn’t have come as a surprise if he had seen Sam as a burden, and in the end, had ended up resenting him. 

He knew, though, that was far, far from the way Dean actually looked at it. Sam was never his burden, and he wasn’t just his little brother, either. Sam was also—in array of very messed up kinds of circumstances—more or less, his kid. 

They’ve never discussed it, and they probably never would, but there are certain truths behind it all that would never change. 

Dean had always been the one to look out for him. He’d always been the one to make sure he ate, made sure he had clean clothes for school, made sure he’d gotten a new coat that year he’d outgrown two in one season. Their dad had bitched about it, like Sam was purposely trying to make things more difficult for them. Sam knew he wasn't going to get anywhere by arguing, so he had dropped it. Dean had shown up later that night with a new winter coat. 

It had been Dean who taught him how to shave, and how to clean and shoot  _all_  of the guns. Dean was the one who had given him “the talk”, and he had also been the one to pick up the pieces of his first broken heart.

Sure, their Dad did his best to take care of them. Even if his "best" wouldn’t be deemed as enough by Child Protection standards. Still, Dean was the one that viewed Sam as his number one concern, above anything else in the world. For as long as he could remember, it had just always been that way.

So, when he felt Dean’s hand start to tug away, Sam had tugged back. He wasn't going to let Dean run from him. He couldn't let his brother leave. Because above anything else in the world, Dean was  _his_  number one concern, and they had to fix this.

Swallowing the pain, he forced his eyes open, fixed them on his brother, and tugged him toward him again. 

Dean frowned at him but stepped back up to the bed. Sam tugged on him one final time and Dean looked at the open space on the mattress, and then him. He knew Dean was conflicted and broken between doing what Sam needed, and whatever harebrained notion he was telling himself he had to do instead. 

Sam closed his eyes and used whatever strength he could gather to squeeze his brother’s hand while forcing out one word. 

_“Dean.”_

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to win him the battle. With a deep sigh, his brother gave in and settled into the space on the mattress beside him.

_ TBC... _


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Here we are (finally) the last chapter to a story that was originally intended to be a one-shot. Then more was requested and I planned on adding only one more chapter. Well, I guess I just couldn't wrap it up in two chapters, so we're completing this story in a fourth chapter. I hope you like it, as I have to admit that this one did give me a fair amount of trouble. However, my girls stuck with me and helped me get it to where it is today. I hope it doesn't disappoint. Thank you for all the kudos, and a big thank you to those that took the time to leave a review. When I can see what people like and/or don't like, it really does go a long way in inspiring more to be written. Thank you to everyone for being so kind._

* * *

 

Helping Sam to roll onto his side didn't go as smoothly as Dean hoped it would have. At first, Sam was doing pretty good. He managed to get himself sitting up about half way, but that's as good as it got. It was right after that, when he let out a small cry, and then, just kind of went away on them. The grip he had on Dean's hand dropped and Sam started to fall back.

Dean gave the hand behind his brother's shoulder a little heave toward himself and jumped forward. Lunging over the bed, he threw his arm behind Sam's shoulders and pulled him toward himself. Bracing his free hand against the mattress, Dean was scared as hell when Sam wilted in his embrace.

"Sam— _Sammy?"_

He didn't get an answer, and he was about to tell Castiel to go grab the nurse, but then there was a soft grunt as Sam's hand grabbed at his shirt. His brother's head dropped against his collarbone, and Dean held him a little closer, "Easy, Sammy. I got you, man; I got you."

Dean looked across the bed at his friend. He had a hand on Sam's back, with that frustrated, constipated look, and Dean was sure he'd tried again to heal even a fraction of Sam's injuries.

Maybe if all this would have taken place back when Castiel had first joined their little group, all of this wouldn't be affecting him as much. But, over the years, and especially after that stint he'd done as a mortal, he had been molded into something different. Something better.

Castiel now understood pain and suffering. He was familiar with stress and fear, and he had experienced the suffocating sensation of empathy. In Dean's opinion, he was now more human than angel, and he was having his first taste at dealing with a friend who was busted up and suffering, and not being able to do a damn thing about it.

"Cas," Dean said, holding the back of Sam's head as he continued to pant clipped breaths against his shirt. "Come over on this side and give me a hand."

The angel looked over at him, "Dean, Sam is in distress. We should alert his nurse."

Dean would  _love_  to go out into the unit, screaming for Sam's nurse, demanding that they help his brother. But, it wouldn't do them much good. Sam was in pain; yes. He'd even go as far as agreeing with his friend that Sam was in "distress." It still didn't change that, about the best the ICU staff could do for him right now, would be to help him get more comfortable, and maybe offer a cool cloth for his head.

Instead of taking the time to explain what he already knew from years of past experiences, for his brother's sake, he kept it short and to the point. "They're not gonna be able to do anything. Now, get over here and help me."

Thankfully, Castiel knew when to drop an issue, and didn't waste any more time before rounding the foot of the bed. Pulling up beside him, he looked at Sam, and then Dean, waiting to be told what to do.

Giving a nod toward his brother's legs, Dean said, "Be gentle. Get a hand under his hip. Put your other hand behind his knee. On my mark, I want you to follow my lead, and we're going to pull Sam toward us and onto his side. Okay?"

Castiel nodded and Dean added, "Make sure you keep pace with me; the goal here is to keep his waist from twisting. Alright?"

The angel nodded again, "I understand."

"Hang on, Sammy. Just a couple more seconds," Dean spoke softly while adjusting his hold. "Okay, Cas. Easy now."

A team of professional people-movers couldn't have done a better job. Their movements were synchronized and fluid and, in less time that it would take to fieldstrip his Colt, they had Sam settled onto his side.

However, none of that made a bit of difference, because his brother  _hurt._  And it was bad.

Straightening out the bedding, he watched Sam hold his head as he curled into himself, and breathed awful, pained grunts into his pillow. Dean took the hand still twisted in his shirt and squeezed it.

Sam squeezed back with a crushing grip, and again, the thought that he'd done this to his brother carved deeper into his brain. He'd already done so much damage. Every ounce of pain Sam was suffering through was because of him. His heart panicked, and he started to think he might possibly hurt his brother even more, simply by standing too close to him.

He tried to take a step back, but Sam wouldn't let him. The grip on his hand intensified, and with all that pain and hurt beating down on him, the kid found the strength to tug him back toward himself. Then Sam used a strength he couldn't spare and called his name.

He knew what his brother wanted and held no illusions that he'd be able to deny him anything he asked of him right now. So, he was mindful as he took a seat in the open space on the bed.

He was aware that his hip was only an inch or two away from the incision in his brother's stomach, and he started to scoot over a little. But, then Sam's legs curled up behind him, pressing against his back, and Dean knew he was stuck. His brother was curled around him like a damn cat, and he resigned to the fact that he wouldn't be going anywhere for a while.

Dean touched a hand to Sam's shoulder, giving it a squeeze, and watched him breathe. He didn't like what he was seeing, and even though he was pretty sure it was a needless gesture, he looked down at his watch and started counting.

By the time the secondhand made one full rotation, Dean had counted thirty-three breaths. Placing his free hand over the one that still gripped his leg, he leaned in and spoke softly, "Easy, Sammy. You're getting a little carried away with your breathing. Slow it down."

Sam's rapid, shallow breaths whittled down, but things weren't looking much better. He was trying to control his breathing by holding each breath for a few seconds, and then exhaling slowly. Dean knew that was what his brother was  _trying_  to do. What he was  _actually_ doing, was something entirely different.

Deep, gulping breaths were dragged in, and instead of holding them for a bit, they were almost immediately exhaled in a fractured burst. Then, another was sucked in before the previous breath had been completely exhaled. It was a fantastic recipe for hyperventilation.

The grip on his leg intensified, and Dean frowned, pressing his palm against his brother's chest, "Slow it down, Sam."

Laying his palm over Sam's chest was a gesture he picked up from their dad. It's something John used to do when he and Sam were young. If they were scared, or hurt, or really sick, his large hand would settle over their heart and make the bad, a little better.

It's not something used very often between them anymore, but their father's touch would never be forgotten. It was familiar, and soothing, and it meant something different to each of them.

To Dean it reminded him of a time when they didn't have to figure everything out on their own. When they had someone there to watch out for them and keep them safe. He wasn't sure what it meant to his brother, but he knew without a doubt, it was something good, because it always had the same, calming effect.

Sam's heart continued to pound beneath his hand, but his breathing was already losing that erratic edge. Looking up at his vitals, Dean knew they were still uncomfortably close to throwing off alarms, and he really wanted to get Sam calmed down before Kailyn came rushing in.

It's not that he had anything against the nurse doing her job, it's just that Dean knew that's not what Sam needed right now. He didn't need someone fussing over him, asking him questions, and making him talk. What Sam needed was quiet and calm. He needed to know Dean was beside him, and that he had things under control.

He looked back down when Sam curled around him a little more. Screwing his eyes shut tighter, he brought the hand gripping Dean's leg to his head and set them back a step by breathing out a choked gasp.

"C'mon, Sammy...," Dean wrapped an arm around his brother's shoulders and leaned in close. "Remember what Dad taught us: Don't fight against the pain. Don't resist it. You'll just make it scream louder. Acknowledge it, but don't let it take control." He was quiet, and when nothing improved, he added, "Do some of that peace-guru meditation stuff."

Sam swallowed and forced out, "… trying; can't concentrate."

It irked Dean to hear that, because Sam's all about meditation—meditation, health food, working out, "reducing his carbon footprint"... Sam's deep into that kind of stuff. He's like, the Buddha of the Midwest, and it was just wrong, on so many levels, that he couldn't find his happy place.

So, he asked, "Do you want help getting focused?"

Sam was quiet and then actually cracked open an eye and fixed him with a brief look, "… how?"

Dean smiled, "You used to play that cd every day for months. If I tried hard enough, I think I could probably still recite most of it verbatim."

The corner of Sam's mouth turned up the slightest bit and he gave him the smallest of nods.

"Alright, Sammy." Speaking low, Dean tightened his one-armed embrace, "Allow the weight of your body to sink down toward the earth. Breathe deeply, letting go of the pain a little more on each out breath."

Giving Sam a little time, Dean watched and waited for his breathing to become mostly controlled, and then said, "Good, Sam. Now, allow the breath to settle. Let it find its own natural rhythm..."

Dean looked up at the monitor as he continued to talk his brother through the mediation technique. The more he talked, the more Sam's pulse and heart rate slowed. Once they stopped fluctuating up and down as much, Dean trailed off and let his brother take the reins.

Sitting still, he remained silent as he began to count Sam's respirations for a second time. His breathing wasn't perfect, but at twenty-seven breaths in a minute, it was workable. His pulse and heart rate were still high enough to let Dean know that the pain remained a big a problem, and he wracked his brain, trying to think of another way he could help.

And then he got an idea.

Sometime last year, just before Thanksgiving, Dean had gotten his bell rung pretty good. They'd been out near Seattle, looking into what sounded like a vengeful spirit. Well, they'd found it, and she was most definitely vengeful.

They had been prying up the floorboards in a shack that had to date back to the '20's. He was saying something, he had no clue what. Next he knew, he was on the floor with a persistent little brother leaning over him, demanding that he keep taking while Sam finished the job.

Back at the motel, the migraine that was working on making his brain explode was bad enough that when Sam had the idea of using some sort of new-age guru maneuver on him, Dean hadn't argued.

Hell, Sam could have told him to go live in the desert for a month and contemplate on his spirituality, and Dean would have signed right up. If it meant he'd get a measure of relief from the pain in his head.

Thankfully Sam's solution hadn't been anywhere near that drastic. And, although Dean may have been skeptical in the beginning, there was no doubt that it had brought the pain down to a moderately tolerable level.

Now, he was hoping that it would do the same for Sam—if he could just remember the damn name.

Digging out his cellphone, Dean spent a couple minutes looking it up, but then for the sake of time, went straight to the source.

Giving his brother's shoulder a squeeze, Dean spoke low and soft, "Hey, Sam?"

There was a beat of silence, and then,  _"...Mmm?"_

Squeezing his shoulder again, Dean's thumb rubbed back and forth, "What was the name of that thing you did last year when I had that killer migraine?"

"…"

"After that S&B out by Seattle... Acu—something... acupuncture?"

_"… pressure."_

"Pressure...?"

_"acupressure."_

"Shit; that's right. Okay; hey, you want to give that a try? See if it can help at all?"

Dean sat and waited for Sam to decide if he wanted to risk it. It didn't take very long for him to come to a decision.

_"k."_

"Okay, man. Hang tight for just a sec."

Doing a search, he brought up a website on his phone. Scrolling down the page, Dean nodded to himself while looking it over. Most of what he was seeing on the how-to page was familiar, and he felt a bit of renewed confidence over being able to help.

Dean scrolled back up to the top of the page. He decided that a slow start, beginning with the areas that didn't involve touching Sam's head, would be best.

Turning down the brightness on his screen, Dean set down the phone on his thigh. "Alright, Sammy," he said while looking at the illustrated instructions. Then touched the back of one of the hands Sam had pressed against his forehead. "Give me your hand."

The hand Dean touched moved toward him, and he captured it in both of his. He looked at his phone again, and then used his thumb and index finger to pinch the webby part between Sam's thumb and index finger. Applying deep pressure, he counted to sixty in his head.

Scrolling down the page, and continuing onto different pressure points, he started in on the ninth or tenth spot. And, just like he did with all the other areas, his eyes skipped up and watched Sam while he counted.

He couldn't say that he was seeing any improvement in his condition, but Dean thought he remembered it taking a while, back when Sam had done this for him. Considering that, he worked on the first ten pressure points a few more times, and then prepared to move onto the next stage.

It was a tricky move, because the next areas required him to touch Sam's face, neck and head. And, if he remembered things right, that hadn't felt especially great. However, thinking back again to that motel room in Seattle, he was pretty sure after bearing through the initial discomfort, it had been then, when he'd started to notice the beginnings of some major relief.

Dean inhaled a deep breath, "Okay, Sam. Gonna move on to some pressure points on your face."

Reaching out, his hand hovered with hesitation, saying, "Let me know if you need me to stop." And then he let it come down and settle over brother's head. He focused on the area that the website called the Third Eye. It was located just between the eyebrows, where the bridge of the nose met the forehead, and Dean pressed his thumb against it.

Sam flinched, his legs jerking against Dean's back as his shoulders hunched with added tension, but he didn't hiss or groan, or try to duck his head away. Believe it or not, Dean took that as a good sign

Holding his hand still for a moment, Dean wanted to make sure the pressure wouldn't get them moving in the wrong direction. He watched as Sam raised the hand lying across his leg and touched it to his forehead, but that's all he did. He didn't make a move to reject Dean's touch, and that gave him the green light to begin moving his thumb in a tight circular motion. He counted to sixty.

Dean studied Sam's expressions and body language. The tension in his shoulders, the pained crease in his forehead, the blush of his fingertips as they pressed against his brow. They were all were markers that Dean used to adjust his movements.

Scrolling down the page to find the next spot, Dean scowled down at his phone. The next one was called Bright Light. It consisted of two points situated in the inside corners of the eyes, just below the eyebrows. And, really freaking close to the bridge of the nose. He thought about skipping it, considering Sam's broken nose. But, he was going to leave that up to his brother to decide.

"Sam?" Dean asked, and received the same hummed response as before. "Hey, the next spot is at the inside corner of your eyes. But, it's close to the bridge of your nose. I'm not… um—" Looking away, Dean breathed in a steadying breath. "I'm not exactly sure where the break is. I'm not sure if we should skip it or not."

Sam was quiet as he thought about what Dean was saying. Then, his brow knitted and he cleared his throat. He spoke just loud enough to be heard, "Go ahead."

Rubbing an anxious hand across his brow, Dean stared down at his phone. His lips moving as he read, he studied the exact placement of where his fingertips needed to press. He looked the information over a couple of times, and then looked at his brother.

He was gentle as he moved Sam's hand out-of-the-way, and then he touched the tips of his thumb and middle finger high on the bridge of the nose.

His touch was feather-light at first, but then gradually increased in pressure. He'd gotten to about half-power, thinking they might actually be okay, but then Sam winced with a grunt. His hand captured Dean's, pulling it away.

"Okay, Sammy." Dean said, squeezing his brother's hand. "I got it; that one's a no go."

After moving past the next three pressure points, Dean pressed his thumb into a spot on the edge of Sam's shoulder, near the base of his neck. He counted to sixty and then held the spot a little longer.

"Doing okay, Sam?" Dean asked, looking back at his phone, and scrolled down the page. "Is it helping at all?"

Sam remained silent, and Dean was too as he read up on how to perform the next pressure area. Sliding his fingers beneath the hair at the back of Sam's neck, Dean felt his way along the area between the back of his ear and his spine. He found the muscles he was looking for and pressed this thumb into the point where they came together. He'd held that spot for about twenty seconds, when he heard Sam's soft reply.

"… think so."

Dean released a pent-up breath. Sam's voice was stronger and he seemed to be able to respond to him with minimal effort. It must be giving him at least  _some_  form of relief. A little while later, Sam rewarded him by letting the hand covering his eyes fall away from his face, and come to a rest across his knee.

Moving through a few more areas, it became impossible to miss how Sam was continuing to relax. The tension that had him wound so tightly was coming undone. His shoulder dipped a little and his head sunk into the pillow more.

He wasn't sure if the pain was actually lessening, or if Sam was just able to deal with it better. Either way, it was a positive outcome; and right now, Dean was going to take all the positive they could get.

Carefully skirting the wound above Sam's temple Dean found the pressure point at the corners of his forehead and pressed. He counted to fifteen, and then began to rubbing in a circular motion.

Dean began to lose time as he sat there, comforting his brother. His hands went on auto pilot, and his mind started to wander. It tried a few times to take him back to the events of half a day ago. When it did, he'd push that away and reroute it back to where he needed it to be. A place where he thought he might have found a temporary solution to their problem.

Getting Sam to agree with it? That was going to be the hard part.

A twinge pulled at the middle of his back, and sitting up straighter, Dean winced at the stiffness as he looked down at Sam. He was still. He hadn't moved, and his eyes didn't open when Dean's hands didn't make it back to his head. He dared to hope the kid was asleep.

Dean rested his hand on Sam's shoulder and dared to lean back just a bit against the legs still pressed against his lower back. He needed a change of position and figured that would have less chance of rousing his brother than if he were to get up and stretch.

Looking around the dim room his eyes came to a rest on the monitor showing Sam's vitals. His heart rate and pulse were still elevated from his baseline, but compared to just a little while ago, there was a big improvement.

Dean looked down at his brother and thought back to when Sam had been rushed off for emergency surgery. He and Cas could only stand there and watch as the hospital staff had taken Sam from the trauma room, and disappeared around a corner with him. One of the trauma nurses had started to say something about showing them to the surgical waiting area, but Dean was already turning them toward the exit of the ER. He found a quiet corner, and then got up close and personal with the angel, demanding to know what exactly had happened when Castiel had arrived at the bunker.

At first, Cas had been reluctant to divulge the gritty details, but Dean pressed on, and eventually, with a big, labored sigh, his friend had laid it all out for him.

The news had made him take a temporary leave of his senses and he had turned and stalked straight out of the hospital, looking for anything he could destroy. It didn't take long, and a few alleyways later he'd come upon a stack of empty pallets next to an abandoned bicycle, minus one front wheel.

The bike had been the first victim to his anger as he snatched it up by the back wheel and swung it against the wall of the alley. He'd gotten in a good ten or twelve swings before the chain snapped. Maybe five more, and the frame had flung behind him on his backswing, leaving him with just the wheel in his hand.

He looked at the bent-up wheel, breathing heaving breaths of both exertion and rage, and decided he wasn't done yet. Flinging the destroyed wheel down the back of the alley, Dean had moved onto the stack of empty pallets.

Taking a deep breath now, he looked down at Sam. The gash on the side of his head peeked out from behind his hair, and Dean took care as he brushed his fingertips through the long strands, pushing them away. Holding his hair back with a hand to his head, Dean's thumb moved with gentle strokes as he leaned in to get a better look.

Thanks to the dark room, he couldn't tell much, other than the wound was held together by three butterfly closures. That information alone wasn't going to cut it, and he picked up cell phone again. Facing the screen away from his brother's eyes, he used the light to reveal the extent of the damage.

It was an ugly, swollen wound. Whatever had gone down; whatever he had done to cause it, Dean was able to tell that it had happened from one—maybe two blows. Blows hard enough to split the skin, probably on first contact. Looking at the placement, at how damn close it was to Sam's temple, Dean couldn't help but think how much worse it would have been if the impact had happened just a little lower.

Trying to figure out what he'd done to cause the damage, he looked down at his hand, but, easily ruled it out. If he'd done that kind damage with only a punch, his hand would be in much worse shape than just a few cuts.

It was stiff and sore as he flexed it, and Dean thought of how he'd destroyed the pallets in that alleyway. Cut, bleeding, and painful, Dean had made a tight fist to intensify the pain. He couldn't explain it, but he had needed to feel it. It was after he had concentrated on that pain for a while, that he was able to walk back into the hospital and focus on his brother.

He'd spent the better part of an hour, sitting in the surgical waiting room, picking out as many splinters as he could without a pair of tweezers.

Castiel had found him a wet cloth, but when his friend offered it to him, Dean had ignored him. He'd sat there for the longest time, just staring at his bleeding hand, and watched his blood run over what was left of Sam's. Their blood mingled, fresh blood oozing over dried, and the sight of it had given Dean a terrible foreboding in the pit of his stomach.

If he didn't do something drastic, and find a way to keep himself far away from his brother, Dean knew how it all would end. What Cain said would come to pass. And, he knew if that day ever came, the day where he kills Sam, it would be the end of both of them. His blood would mix with his brother's one last time, and then that would be it.

Flexing his hand again, Dean thought of how he had sat there while the doctors worked on his brother to fix the damage he had done. Cas had tried talking to him, but he hadn't listened. He was too far away within his mind, and had remained there, until the angel had taken his damaged hand in his own and began to wipe it down with the cloth.

Thinking of his friend, Dean looked over at the doorway, and then the chair on the other side of Sam's bed. Both were empty, and he frowned.  _If that featherhead went back on our agreement and slipped out on me.._.

Craning his head around, Dean looked harder over his shoulder, and then turned to look over the other before he spotted Castiel. He was sitting in the corner behind them, and in his hands was an issue of Cosmopolitan magazine.

Castiel's back was against the glass wall, and using light filtering in from the unit outside, his eyes poured over the pages. As Dean watched him, he couldn't help wondering what the article was about to have the angel so captivated.

"I'm sorry."

The whispered statement jerked Dean's attention back to his brother. Stroking a hand over his head, he asked, "What'd you say, Sam?"

Sam moved his head against the pillow, then opened his eyes and squinted at him, "I'm sorry."

Dean's hand halted, cupping the back of his brother's head as he scowled down at him, "What the hell for?"

"For this." Sam closed his eyes, "It's my fault."

"That's..." Dean shook his head, "Don't be stupid, Sam. There is no way any of this is your fault."

"It is."

Dean huffed, "Oh, okay. I guess I must have missed the part where you managed to kick your own ass."

Sam winced, and then swallowed, "I should have stopped; pushed you too far."

"That's—Sam, no. This is not on you. This is... I..." Dean closed his eyes, "I'm the one that took on the mark. I'm the one responsible for my own actions."

"And, I'm responsible for you."

"No, Sam. It… No. It doesn't work that way."

"You're my brother. I'm supposed to look out for you—"

"Sam—"

"I'm supposed to be strong, if you're not. It was on me to walk away."

"No, Sam.  _It doesn't work that way_." Dean growled, caught up in his emotions, and raised his voice without thinking.

Sam grunted, flinching his head away from the noise.

"Shit, Sammy, I'm sorry. I'm..." Dean moved to get up, but his brother's hand latched onto his thigh, gripping hard.

Castiel's hand appeared on Dean's shoulder, "Perhaps it would be better for you continue this conversation when Sam is feeling better."

Eyes still closed, Sam asked, "Cas, would you mind giving us a minute?"

The angel looked from his brother to him, and Dean shook his head, "Cas stays."

Sam opened his eyes, and gave him a look, "Why?"

Feeling the flush of emotion spread over his face, Dean said, "Because, he just does."

Sam looked at him in confusion, but his brother is smarter than smart, and even though he was trying to process things with a scrambled brain, it didn't take long for him to figure it out.

Closing his eyes again, Sam sighed, "You're being ridiculous."

"Ridiculous?" Dean fought to keep his tone low, "I almost  _killed_ you, Sam." He was incredulous as he looked from his brother to the angel, "Why am I the only one around here who gets that?"

Sam bumped a fist against his leg, "You're not. Okay?" Then he forced his eyes open again, "But, you don't get to take all the blame for it."

Dropping his head into his hand, Dean sighed. He was quiet for a minute, and then scrubbed a hand through his hair, "Sammy, listen. I've been thinking, and I think, for right now, the best thing for me to do is to pack a few bags and take off for a while."

The news came as a shock, and Sam stared at him, giving him that same, damn wounded look for the second time in less than twelve hours—Fantastic, Dean. You're really batting a thousand today.

Turning his face away from the pillow, Sam looked straight at him, "What are you talking about?"

"I just think It's the right thing—"

"No."

"Sam."

"No."

"Look, I'm not talking about leaving tonight. Alright? I'm going to wait until you're back on your f—"

_"No."_

Dean sighed, "Sammy, listen to me. It's only until we can figure a way—"

_"No,_  Dean. No." Sam scowled at him deep and hard, and then he got an arm under himself and was pushing himself onto his back again.

"Whoa; hey. Easy," Dean said, jumping to his feet and grabbed him by the shoulders. He tried to do some of the work for him, but Sam was moving faster than his body could handle right then and it had only taken one wrong move before he sucked in a hiss and grabbed onto his abused side.

"Damn it, Sam," Dean cursed, gripping his brother's shoulders harder, pinning him down against the bed. "Just lie still."

"We're not talking about this," Sam ground out. "It's not an option."

Dean glanced over to his brother's vitals, "Hey. Cas is right. Let's wait and talk about this later."

Sam shook his head, "I'm okay."

"You are miles from okay, Sam."

"If we don't talk about this now, and fix it, you'll do something stupid."

"No I won't." Sam gave him a look, and Dean sighed, "You're not going to drop this; are you?"

His brother's response to that was to give him a smirk. Rolling his eyes, Dean sat down on the edge of the bed again. "Fine. Are you going to hear me out?"

"No."

"Look. I know the situation sucks ass. But, if you'll just let me get this out, I promise you'll—"

"No," Sam grimaced, releasing a soft grunt as he shifted on the bed. "We need to fix this. You running away is not a fix."

Dean stared at his brother. "I'm not running away."

Sam stopped, letting his eyes slide shut as he took a couple of careful breaths. Then his hand came up, brushing against the side of his leg, and he looked at him again. "You  _leaving_ is not the answer."

"Then, what is? Huh? Clearly, staying with you isn't the answer either. We've seen where that's got us."

"Never would have happened if I—"

"Sammy, I swear…, if you try one more time to say this was your fault—"

"It was."

Dean didn't have anything to say that wouldn't make the situation worse, so he settled for folding his arms, and give his brother a hard look.

Sam looked back at him, saying, "Dean. The mark gives you a handicap. It influences you and wants to control you. I know this. I know what sets it off. I knew I needed to walk away. If I had, this never would have happened."

Dean looked away, running a hand over his mouth, and sighed. "Sammy. I don't know, man." He looked back at his brother, "Man, I just don't know. This whole thing is so screwed up, and neither of us is willing to drop the blame for it."

"Okay, forget whose fault it was. Let's figure out where to go from here."

Dean thought about what Sam said. He thought about it hard, and he wondered if he'd be able to put his guilt and self-accusations on the back burner. "I don't know if I can do that, Sam. I don't know if I can shove aside what I did—"

"What the  _mark_  did."

"What  _I_  did…," Dean trailed off as Sam's nurse came in with his sad, little dose of pain medicine. A tense silence settled between them as Kailyn checked on her patient, and then left them again. The room remained in silence.

Dean sat in his spot on the side of the bed and watched Sam's eyes become heavy. One long blink led to another, longer blink, and after a couple more, his eyes remained closed. The lines of pain on his face didn't fade completely, but that crease in his forehead smoothed out enough to tell that pathetic amount of pain killers was actually helping him a little.

The crinkle of a page turning had Dean looking over his shoulder again. Castiel was back in his chair by the glass, looking through the same magazine, and this time he had to ask, "What are you reading about?"

"29 Sex Truths Every Woman Should Know." The angel answered, his eyes never lifting from the magazine. He perused the other side of the page asking, "It says 31% of men surveyed admit to faking an orgasm."

Castiel looked over the magazine at him, "Have you ever faked an orgasm?"

Dean felt his eyebrows shoot toward his hairline at the unexpected question, "Uh. No."

Castiel went back to the magazine, looking thoughtful, "Neither have I." Then, he looked at Dean again, "Why would someone want to fake an orgasm?"

Dean sputtered for a second, mentally kicking himself for asking his friend to share, but then the BP cuff engaged and he felt Sam's leg bump against his hip. Taking advantage of the distraction, Dean left Castiel to his sex facts and turned away to face his brother.

His eyes were still closed, but a frown played across his brow. The BP machine reached its apex and paused. Sam's frown increased, and Dean could almost  _feel_  the uncomfortable pinch as the cuff squeezed his brother's arm.

Sam's legs shifted beneath the blanket and Dean wanted to put a bullet through the damn machine for rousing his brother after he'd finally managed to slip away from the pain and get some rest.

There was a click and then another as the machine took its reading. Sam's eyes were still shut when the machine released the air in the cuff with a hiss and Dean mentally crossed his fingers, hoping he would drift back off. But, then he'd swallowed a couple of times and knowing what was coming, Dean reached across his brother and grabbed the cup of ice water, previously rejected.

Sam cracked his eyes open, and then gave him a grin of thanks when Dean handed him the cup. He took a few drinks and when he was finished, Dean set it back down on the same table. Looking back at his brother, Dean found him looking back. Taking one look at his droopy lids, Dean knew it wouldn't take much of a push to coax Sam to go back to sleep. And, that's exactly what he told him.

"Go back to sleep, Sam. Get some rest while the meds are fresh. We can go back to hashing things out later."

Sam was hesitant, and then asked, "You'll stay?"

"Yeah, I'll stay."

"Promise?" Sam closed his eyes, breathing out a weak laugh, "Not planning on slipping out as soon as I crash, are you?"

Dean gave his brother a look. Of course, Sam had known what he was planning a while back when he'd first refused to go into the room. Of course, his brother had worked his compelling and very effective method of persuasion to wear him down.

And, Dean figured that it was probably fortunate for him that he had. He still wasn't thinking straight; he was still allowing his guilt and grief over hurting his brother cloud his judgement. He had to admit that there was a part of him grateful that he wasn't going to figure out how to fix it all on his own. He was relieved that they were going to go at this problem like they have in the past.

Together.

It's how they did their best work. For as long as he could remember, it's just always been that way.

Reaching out to brush the bangs away from his brother's face, he gave him a smile, "No, Sammy. I'm not going to leave."

Sam stared at him, scrutinizing him for a moment, but then he must have seen something in his eyes to put him at ease, because a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he closed his eyes.

Dean watched his brother's features relax, and then his chest began rise and fall with deep, even breaths.

He sat there in his spot on the side if the bed, listened to the sound of Castile turning another few pages of his magazine, and watched over his little brother.

"I'll be right here."

 

_Fin_


End file.
